


Tony's Scars

by literally_no_idea



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (yes i'm well aware that it's really depressing that this is self indulgent for me), Abuse, Abusive Parents, Blackmail, Blood, Blood and Violence, Burns, Child Abuse, Consent Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt Tony Stark, Manipulation, Multi, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Self-Sacrifice, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Assault, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Verbal Abuse, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 14:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literally_no_idea/pseuds/literally_no_idea
Summary: Tony has a lot of scars. Some are visible, some aren’t.Please mind the tags and warnings.





	Tony's Scars

**Author's Note:**

> this is self indulgent because i'm tired and april/may are my two least favorite months of the year for trauma reasons so i'm projecting shit onto my favorite characters. sorry.
> 
> once again, please mind the tags/warnings.

There’s a scar that’s barely visible beneath his left eyebrow from the day when he was four years old and he made his first toy car, and his father had taken one look at it and laughed, had snatched it from Tony’s hands and thrown it at the boy, the sharp edges of the metal car’s frame slicing through Tony’s eyebrow, blood dripping down his face, and Howard had sneered at him, had told him “go clean yourself up, boy, I won’t have you dripping blood on my workshop floor.”

 

There’s an invisible scar in Tony’s throat, one that prevents him from speaking when someone starts to yell, a scar left behind from the day when he was six years old, rambling to his dad about possible ideas he has for finding Captain America’s crashed ship. Howard had spun on the boy, screaming “you think I haven’t already tried that? you think I’m that stupid? do you? huh? answer me, Anthony, do you think I’m an idiot, or are you too stupid yourself to think through your words? Huh? Answer me, god damn it!”

 

Tony hadn’t answered, frozen in fear, and Howard had laughed. “Yeah, now you shut up, couldn’t have done that twenty minutes ago, could you? Get out, Anthony, I don’t have time for your stupid shit.”

 

There’s more invisible scars in his throat from all the screams and sobs that have been ripped from his throat over the years, from the sobs when his father would scream at him to the screams when he was being tortured in Afghanistan, the burn of water in his lungs as they waterboarded him, the burn of vomit as he threw up water after, the burn of vomit when he wakes up from nightmares in a panic, the burn of vomit after the third or fourth night of being used for his body by one person or another, the burn of alcohol as he tries to make the memories, the feelings, the pain, go away.

 

There’s invisible burns on Tony’s shoulders, left behind from all the times that Howard had put a hand on Tony’s shoulders for pictures for the papers, how Tony had forced a smile onto his face, and Howard had done the same, how after every photo shoot Howard would lead Tony back into the house, crouch down in front of Tony, hands on his shoulders, and he’d growl in Tony’s ear that he’d “better stop trying to show off,” that he had better stop trying to show Howard up.

 

There’s the patchwork of scars across his chest from the arc reactor, and underneath them the invisible scars of the palladium poisoning, the scars on Tony’s heart from the death of his mother, of Jarvis, from Howard’s hatred towards him, from Obadiah’s betrayal, from the students at MIT who told him to shut up, who threw him into dumpsters and left him there for custodians and sometimes garbage truck drivers to find, from the professors who looked the other way as it all happened, who told Tony that he was only at MIT because “your daddy paid your way in, huh?”

 

There’s scars along Tony’s arms, self inflicted because they were the only release Tony had, one of the few things left in Tony’s life that he could control. There’s horizontal scars that were nothing more than a release for all of his pain; there's vertical scars, that he had hoped would be a final release, but that failed, and had only resulted in some doctors being paid a lot of money not to say anything to the press after they stitched Tony up; and there's words, symbols, and numbers, carved into his arms, all with different meanings. “Help,” is obvious. “Please,” also obvious. There’s a smiley face near his right elbow, a reminder that he’s supposed to just put on a smile and move on. A zero, carved near his left elbow, to remind him that he’s worth nothing, he is nothing, he will always be nothing.

 

There’s scars on Tony’s hands, both of his hands weird mosaics of years of scars piled on top of one another. There’s a scar on his left palm from when he was eight years old and had dropped and broken a plate on accident, how he had scrambled to clean it up before his dad saw and had sliced his palm open in the process, and his dad had found him anyway, found him crying on the kitchen floor with his hand bleeding profusely, and Howard had wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Stop crying,” he had snapped at Tony, “Stark men don’t cry.”

 

There’s scars from more burns and cuts than Tony could ever count on his hands, from helping Howard in his workshop, how he was allowed into the workshop on two conditions: “One, you don’t make a fucking sound, and two, you do whatever I tell you, without question.” Howard would hand Tony things that Howard knew were dangerous; the hot end of a welding torch he’d just used, dry ice that Tony took with bare hands, precision knives and blades, sharp end first.

 

Tony would take whatever he was handed and set it where he was told, and he would bite his lip until it bled to prevent himself from making any noise, from whimpering or whining or crying, because he wanted to be in Howard’s workshop, he wanted to be involved in making things, and if this was the price he had to pay for it, then so be it.

 

There’s invisible scars on Tony’s hips, invisible bruises from where men, women, and nonbinary people alike had grabbed him, pulled him in close and whispered dirty things in his ears, told him that if he didn’t go along, they would tell the press that he had hurt them, that he had raped them, or whatever other lie they had come up with. Tony would follow them, would lay down and take it as they fucked him, used him and then abandoned him, told him that they’d see him again next week, and Tony would flinch but nod, agree to come back, same time and place next week.

 

There’s invisible scars on Tony’s knees from all the time he spent on them, choking on someone’s dick in his throat, while people in the room whistled and cheered on whoever was fucking his face, clamored to be the next to fuck him. There’s more scars on his knees, both visible and invisible from all the times he’s collapsed, too exhausted or weak or hurt to stay standing, from carrying the weight of his own trauma, from another battle that ended in a close call, from another 78 hours straight spent awake in the workshop, building things because falling asleep means nightmares that he’s not ready to face again.

 

There’s more scars than Tony can count, and he doesn’t even bother trying anymore, because it’s just not worth it. He knows he’ll get more tomorrow, and the day after that, and it's just another fact of his life, just one more thing that he endures every single day, and eventually he might be nothing but scar tissue, and eventually something will kill him, and he’ll get to rest in a grave, and won’t that be nice, but until then, he keeps going, lets the scars pile up on his body like the memories in his mind and hopes that someday it will all go away.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, sorry again


End file.
